Bullets and Blood
by CalicoKitty17
Summary: The dead Marine's were typical. Expected. An honorable drug dealer and his MI6 uncle? Not so much.


**Chapter 1**

Ricky Freeman was used to being ignored. He was a bartender, it was required that he be able to deal with all sorts of people, from emotional to stoic to tipsy to violent. It was part of the job description. He served drinks, collected money, listened as people cried about the terrible hand life had dealt them, and sometimes held the occasional conversation. He was good at paying attention to details and even better at pretending he didn't notice them.

The group at the end of the counter were going to be part of the latter class, he could already tell. Three soldiers, easily discerned by their military haircuts and their stature, and a young man who looked like he would fit in well at a punk rock concert.

Deliberately spiked black hair, streaked liberally with red highlights, silver studs in his ears, nose, and lip, and a tattoo that started at his collarbone and winded down, beneath the dark outfit of leather and chains. He looked like he could disappear into the shadows at any moment, but his blue eyes were lit up, wary and guarded and gleeful all at the same time.

It was an interesting sight, and one Ricky was sure he would be prudent to forget as soon as they left.

The soldiers had all ordered shots of whiskey, while the man, surprisingly, stuck to coca-cola. He probably didn't want to get drunk during a business deal, which was sensible. Most drug dealers, because he had no doubt that's what he was, didn't care one way or the other.

Being a bartender taught someone the value of privacy, but it didn't deter their curiosity, and he was very curious.

Ricky lingered as close as he dared, polishing a few glasses to keep his hands busy and making it look like he wasn't paying attention. That was another valuable skill he learned in his profession.

"Well?" A soldier asked impatiently, his foot tapping nervously against the floor.

Ricky could almost see the drug dealers eyes roll and he could hear the thought, 'Newbies,' echo in his head.

"Chill out," the man said. "Don't draw attention to us. I have what you want."

"Good, hand it over." Another soldier ordered.

The man gave them an incredulous look. "Are you guys idiots? I need cash first. And ID's."

"ID's?" The first soldier responded, frowning, unknowingly mirroring Ricky's own question.

"Yeah, identification. I don't deal to minors."

"Do we look like minors to you?"

The dealer shrugged, but held out his hand expectantly. Ricky had to force himself to pay attention to the task at hand instead of gaping at the junkie. Was he suicidal? No intelligent customer would hand over their ID's without some form of insurance that the druggie wouldn't sell him out.

By the expressions on the soldier's faces, however, they didn't know this. It was a clever scheme, if the dealer was doing what Ricky expected. Collecting the names of all his customers would be very beneficial if he ever got caught and arrested. A bargaining chip, or so they say.

Slowly, the customers drew out their wallets, and showed the man their driver's licenses. Ricky watched the dealer memorize their information from the corner of his eye, before he nodded and the soldiers put them all away again.

"Alright, now the cash." The amusement in the dealer's face was palpable as the three men, who had just finished settling back down, stopped. They shot him a glare, but all of them retrieved their wallets again and counted out the cash carefully. Their hands were trembling, feeling the effects of the alcohol.

Ricky frowned. A grown man, and trained soldier, shouldn't be that susceptible to a single shot of whiskey. Had the dealer drugged them?

Glancing at the one in question, a slight frown was on his face as he studied the men, perplexed.

So not him. Then who? Or had they taken something extra beforehand?

The dealer picked up the money, checking the amount quickly, and then hefting a small bag onto the counter in exchange.

"Here." He said, using the soldiers' distraction to grab a napkin and wrap up one of the shot glasses, slipping it out of sight.

Now Ricky was doubly curious. A dealer who stole a shot glass to check if his customers had been drugged? He assumed the napkin was to preserve fingerprints, which meant he would have to have the resources and knowledge to check them. A cop? No, too young. Not a detective, or an agent. A personal quest? A vendetta that the police were using for their own gain- sending him undercover?

Ricky shook his head. He had been watching too many movies lately.

Then the dealer dropped a few bucks as a tip for the shot glass and the bartender's opinion of him rose. An honorable drug dealer? That was new.

"It's about time." A soldier grunted, tugging the bag closer and into his lap. He checked the contents, and was obviously appeased, so he zipped it back up and turned. "Another shot!" He called, slurring, and it was as if the dealer wasn't even there anymore.

The dealer paused, considering something, and then hopped up and strode over to Ricky, leaning on the counter and catching his gaze. "Listen," he said in a low voice. "Can you water down their drinks? I don't think they should have too much more."

Ricky nodded, and decided that if this man hadn't been a dealer, they could have been good friends.

"Oh, and I trust you'll keep quiet about what happened." The dealer's eyes were mischievous, and a small smile twisted at his lips to tell Ricky that there was no harm done.

"Of course." Ricky replied.

"Good." The dealer affirmed, heading to the door, and offering only a brief wave of his gloved hand before he was gone.

Very good friends, Ricky corrected, chuckling to himself as he prepared a very light trio of whiskey shots for the soldiers at the end of the bar.

-start with Alex and Ben talking about the glass or Alex and the drug dealers with Ben over comm


End file.
